


In For A Penny, In For A Pound

by Elsajeni



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Community: capkink, Homophobic Language, M/M, World War II, homophobic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve steps back into line, a few places back from Hodge; Bucky follows him and catches him by the sleeve. “Don’t do that again,” he says.</p><p>“What, get you out of trouble? Bucky—”</p><p>“I can fight my own battles,” he snaps, turns on his heel, and leaves without getting breakfast. He may regret it later, but right now, he’d rather starve than have this argument.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In For A Penny, In For A Pound

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written, a couple years ago, for [this prompt](http://capkink.livejournal.com/810.html?thread=277802#t277802):
>
>> Bucky gets some shit from the men over his infatuation with Steve — and the worst part is, they're right, and Steve's the only one who can't see it.
> 
> Warnings for homophobic violence and use of slurs. 

It never seems to happen in front of Steve, and it never seems to go so far that the officers would be obligated to step in. Even the worst of them have more sense than that — even Hodge. So it’s never too public, and it’s never too violent, and all Bucky can do is keep his head down and hope they get bored with it soon.

But they never do, and it seems like every day Bucky’s getting shoved out of file during inspection (and getting bawled out when he can’t scramble back in time); every mealtime, open seats in the mess hall somehow vanish as soon as he starts toward them. The names — hissed at him under their breath, spat aloud as a sharp reminder if he stands too close, once or twice shouted in a crowd, presumably just to see if he’d answer to them — are probably the worst part.

Even the rest of the squad seems to think it’s funny — “Where’s your fella, Barnes? Agent Carter tryin’ to steal him again?” to uproarious laughter; “Just picking up some dames, Barnes, nothing you’d be interested in” when they head into town without him.

He’s starting to wish they’d just beat him up and get it over with.

The one person who doesn’t seem to have noticed any of it — not Bucky’s unpopularity, and more importantly, not the reason for it — is Steve. He clings to that. It doesn’t matter who else knows or guesses, how far the word spreads ( _watch out for that little queer_ ); it doesn’t matter how lonesome or humiliated he is. What matters is that Steve never finds out.

He can take it if the rest of the camp, hell, the rest of the _world_ turns its back to him. It’s only the thought of Steve turning away, of the same disgust and contempt on his face that he sees on the rest of them, that frightens him.

Which is why he panics when, one morning, Hodge gets careless and shoves him out of the breakfast line (unexpectedly, and nearly sending him sprawling) with Steve standing right behind them.

Bucky catches himself on the edge of a table and spins around, charges at Hodge, angry and terrified enough to forget the risks of fighting back. Of course, he doesn’t get the chance; Steve steps forward, catches and deflects Bucky’s one wild punch without even looking, and glances back and forth between the two of them. “Is there a problem here?” he asks, low and stern.

“Just a little josh between friends, _Captain_ ,” Hodge answers, suddenly all good cheer and mock respect; Steve quirks the corner of his lip up and says, “Good to know,” and Bucky wonders, not for the first time, if he is actually, literally, incapable of detecting bullshit.

Steve steps back into line, a few places back from Hodge; Bucky follows him and catches him by the sleeve. “Don’t do that again,” he says.

“What, get you out of trouble? Bucky—”

“I can fight my own battles,” he snaps, turns on his heel, and leaves without getting breakfast. He may regret it later, but right now, he’d rather starve than have this argument.

* * *

It’s a long day, and a rough one, and the lack of breakfast doesn’t help. He spends half the morning unloading supply trucks in the rain, staying out of the way as best he can as everyone’s moods get progressively worse; from there, soaked, chilled, and starving, he rejoins the squad and spends an hour avoiding Steve’s eyes and trying unsuccessfully to focus on some implausible plan Dugan’s come up with. When they break for lunch, he ducks out of the tent ahead of everyone else, pretends not to see Steve trying to flag him down.

The afternoon is more of the same: crates, rain, insults, maps and dispatches until his eyes start to cross, Steve following him around looking like a kicked dog. After supper, when Steve disappears to consult with the scientists and Morita suggests a drink in town, Bucky begs off, tries not to think they look relieved, and heads for the western edge of camp, away from the village. It’s usually quiet out there; maybe he can get a little peace.

He’s lost in thought, just leaving behind the last row of another company’s tents, when Hodge steps out in front of him, a trace of a smirk on his face. “Going somewhere, cocksucker?”

“Why, you want some?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he hardly has time to regret it before Hodge sputters something incoherent but furious, lunges forward, and punches him hard in the mouth.

Bucky spits a mouthful of blood, grins tightly. _Fistfights, I can handle_ , he thinks, and wades in.

It’s been a while since he’s gotten into a fight in earnest, but it’s not the kind of skill you lose, and he gets in a couple of solid hits and blocks most of Hodge’s efforts. Then Hodge spits, “Just grab him,” at someone behind him, and they do, a firm hand around his upper arm.

He twists to see who’s there, and his stomach drops: there are two of them, big men he vaguely recognizes as friends of Hodge’s, and that means there’s no way he’s going to win this. But maybe there’s a chance of escaping it — he wrenches his arm free, dives left to slip between Hodge and the one who’d been holding him, and for a split second thinks he might make it.

Then Hodge hits him again as he tries to dodge past, this time in the nose; he feels it break and, already off balance, goes down like a ton of bricks.

“Get up,” Hodge sneers.

Bucky doesn’t move, trying to get his breath back. The toe of a boot finds its way under his ribs, nudges him, hard. “I said get up, you little faggot. Fight like a man.”

“I know when I’m beat,” he pants, and the nudge turns into a solid kick to the ribs. He can’t hold back a groan; Hodge and his friends laugh.

“You don’t know the meaning of ‘beat’ yet,” one of them says, and the boot hits him again, harder this time; he retches in pain, and there’s another round of laughter from above him. “Fuckin’ pansy, should've known—”

That pisses him off, and that’s enough to get him moving. He struggles to get up, makes it to his hands and knees, and just as he’s gathering himself to come up swinging, a voice sings out quietly, “Officer coming.” There’s a sudden flurry of activity around him; someone delivers a last sharp kick to his ribs, nearly knocking him flat again, and then they’re gone and he can hear footsteps coming closer.

Bucky doesn’t want to have to explain what happened, and he can't think straight enough to concoct a decent lie; there’s nothing for it but to get out of sight. He scrambles to his feet, but one ankle goes out from under him — _must have twisted it on my way down_ , he thinks, once he’s finished thinking _ow ow Jesus Christ ow_. He regains his balance and lunges into the shadows between two rows of tents, and he’s evidently just in time; as he half-crouches there, trying to catch his breath and wondering how you know if your ribs are broken, the footsteps pass by and fade into the distance.

“Great,” he mutters, spits blood, swipes his sleeve across his mouth. He really ought to report to the medics; there’s nothing to be done for the bruises or the fat lip, and he’d just as soon go through life with a crooked nose as deal with the pain of setting it, but at least they could wrap his ankle, maybe reassure him about the ribs. He doesn’t head that way, though, or even toward his own tent; without really realizing it, he’s started limping toward Steve’s.

By the time he gets there, the ache under his ribs is starting to fade, and he’s stopped worrying about it, decided it’s probably just a bruise. His nose is still dripping blood, though, and he can only open his left eye about halfway. “This’ll go over great at inspection,” he grouses to himself, and steps inside without bothering to announce himself.

Steve is there, of course, sitting on his cot and reading. He glances up when Bucky comes in, double-takes, then drops the book and springs to his feet, his face all righteous outrage. “Hodge?” he demands.

“And a couple other guys.” Because it’s no use pretending he won the fight, but at least he can make it clear that that’s only because he was outnumbered. He limps over and claims the empty cot; taking the weight off the ankle eases the throbbing a little, but it’s still distractingly painful. “Been a while since I got in a fight. I guess I’m rusty.”

“Since the last time you got me _out_ of a fight, I bet.” Steve smiles, a little wistfully. “I could return the favor now, you know. Want their asses kicked?”

“Oh, thanks, that’d be a _big_ help,” Bucky snaps; he knows he’s being unfair, he suspects Steve was mostly kidding anyway, but he’s taken enough shit today that he’s ready to explode, and a screaming match seems like just the ticket. “You stepping in this morning really fuckin’ improved the situation, didn’t it?”

It works, too; it’s just a flicker, but he can see the annoyance that crosses Steve’s face. “Well, maybe if you’d tell me what ‘the situation’ _is_ instead of avoiding me all day—”

“The situation is,” Bucky cuts him off, glaring, “Hodge thinks I’m a fairy. Hell, _everyone_ does. And you’re not exactly helping.”

Steve stares at him, opens his mouth, shuts it again, which gives Bucky time to think _Oh Christ, what did I just do_. Then he seems to find his voice and says, “Well, why the hell would they—” and that’s about where Bucky thinks _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , surges up and forward across the tent, and kisses him.

He couldn’t possibly count how many times, and how many different ways, he’s imagined this kiss — in every conceivable setting, coming at the end of a million different conversations, romantic or filthy or (usually) one shading into the other. He’d have to admit, though, that he’s never imagined it happening in the middle of an argument, on an army encampment somewhere in Italy, with his face a bloody mess and one eye rapidly swelling shut and practically his entire body throbbing in pain.

Which was obviously shortsighted of him, because this is _perfect_.

It seems like a long time before Steve’s hands come up and find his shoulders, push him gently back. Their eyes meet, just for a second; he sees the shock in Steve’s face, drops his gaze and takes a stumbling step backward. “I — I’m sorry,” he manages, his voice rough. “I didn’t mean — just forget it, forget this ever happened.”

He risks a glance up then; Steve is still staring at him, apparently stunned speechless, and whatever hope he had that they’d go back to normal after this is fading fast. “Please,” he tries again. “Steve, I’m sorry, I swear it’ll never happen again—”

“If you'd be _quiet_ —” Steve steps forward suddenly, catching him by the shoulders again. “I just want to know, how long has this... have _you_...”

There’s a strange look in his eyes that scares Bucky, and he tries to twist away; Steve’s grip on his shoulders only tightens. “I — I don’t want more trouble,” he says; his mouth has gone dry, and it’s a real effort to get the words out. “I’ll leave right now, I won’t bother you again—”

“ _Bother_ me — I really am an idiot—” and before he can make _any_ sense of that, Steve’s arms are around him, pulling him in for another kiss.

It turns out that, when he’s not too stunned to participate, Steve is a better kisser than Bucky would have guessed; in fact, he may be a better kisser than _Bucky_. He’s gentler, certainly, and takes it at a slower tempo, which has never been Bucky’s style but suddenly seems to have a lot going for it. And, as in all other things, he doesn’t know when to quit — by the time Bucky manages to break away for air, he’s seeing spots.

He lets himself sag against Steve’s chest for a while, catching his breath and trying to bully his thoughts into some kind of order. “ _Jesus_ ,” he manages eventually, which is not quite as coherent as he’d hoped but does seem to get the point across.

“If I had any sense,” Steve says into his hair, his voice a little shaky, “I would have done that years ago.”

He lets out a little huff of a laugh. “I’d say it was worth the wait.” But it does ache to think that all these years, all the time he’s spent fooling around with gals he didn’t even like much, he could have had _this_ , and before he can stop himself, he’s saying, barely above a whisper, “Steve, we’ve wasted so much _time_...”

That gets him squeezed closer, Steve’s lips pressed to the top of his head for a long moment. “It doesn’t matter.” Steve’s voice is low, steadier now, and there’s that confidence in it that he’d follow anywhere. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Bucky pulls back reluctantly — it’s the last thing he wants to do, it would be so easy to stay here all night, but if they’re caught he’s sure he’ll be discharged and equally sure Captain Goddamn America won’t be, and this is no time to be sent home, sent away from Steve. “If I don’t get back to my bunk soon—”

“I know.” Steve holds him for another moment, brushes a kiss against his temple, lets him go.

It’s a long walk back to his tent, but he hardly notices the throb of his ankle or the cold rain that’s started up again. His head is full of Steve’s arms around him, Steve’s lips against his, Steve’s voice in his ear: _all the time in the world_...


	2. Epilogue

Bucky’s a little worried about inspection the next morning, but it goes all right. Hodge turns up with a shiner every bit as fine as his — he’d have to admit he feels a little thrill of pride when he sees it, a little burst of _I give as good as I get, don’t I, asshole_ — and Phillips doesn’t comment on either of them, just rolls his eyes as he moves down the ranks.

He meets up with the squad early in the afternoon, while Steve’s off somewhere secretive — probably with Stark, who seems to come up with a new refinement for the suit every five minutes. Without him to keep them on task, they spend an entire hour arguing about which of three routes a HYDRA supply convoy is likely to take, then thirty minutes hashing out a rough plan of attack; the details will require Steve’s touch, so they kill another half-hour shooting the shit, waiting for him to turn up and getting increasingly restless.

Morita is halfway through a story about a girl he knew back home, one that he’s told them three times so far and that Bucky is pretty sure is bullshit anyway, when Dugan loses his patience. “You,” he interrupts, pointing at Bucky, “have got to keep that fella of yours on a tighter leash. Where the hell—”

“Right here, actually,” a voice cuts him off, and Bucky hears the tent flap fall closed behind him; much to his surprise, Dugan actually looks embarrassed. A hand lands possessively on Bucky’s shoulder, and Steve continues, a hint of a challenge in his voice, “Something wrong?”

Bucky shuts his eyes, fights the urge to slink down in his chair and pull his cap down to hide his face. He knows that tone — it’s the one that means _Dare you to make something of it_ , and usually also _Bucky, better finish your drink, I’m gonna need you to get me out of this in a second_ — and he’s never seen it followed by anything but laughter. Even now that Steve actually has the muscle to back it up, he can’t imagine this is going to go well.

There’s a pause, and then — yes, laughter. And a whoop, which throws him, and _applause_ , which makes even less sense; he opens his eyes.

Dernier and Dugan are on their feet, stepping around the table to slap Steve on the back; Morita tilts his chair back, feet on the folding table, and yells, “Pay up! October sixteenth—”

“It’s the seventeenth, asshole, I had the seventeenth—”

“There was a _pool_?” Bucky demands, dumbfounded, and twists to look over his shoulder at Steve. “Do you believe this shit?”

Steve grins down at him, shakes his head. “Guys,” he says over the noise, “about that convoy...”


End file.
